There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.
...you must say words, as long as there are any, until they find me, until they say me, strange pain, strange sin, you must go on, perhaps it's done already, perhaps they have said me already, perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story, that would surprise me, if it opens, it will be I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on
Habit is the ballast that chains the dog to his vomit.
Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.
What are we doing here, that is the question.
Against the charitable gesture there is no defence.
To restore silence is the role of objects.
Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go.
To have been always what I am - and so changed from what I was.
I am interested in the shape of ideas even if I do not believe in them. There is a wonderful sentence in Augustine . . . "Do not despair: one of the thieves was saved; do not presume: one of the thieves was damned." That sentence had a wonderful shape. It is the shape that matters.
It is useless not to seek, not to want, for when you cease to seek you start to find, and when you cease to want, then life begins to ram her fish and chips down your gullet until you puke, and then the puke down your gullet until you puke the puke, and then the puked puke until you begin to like it.
The whisky bears a grudge against the decanter.
Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better.
How all becomes clear and simple when one opens an eye on the within, having of course previously exposed it to the without, in order to benefit by the contrast.
I had little talent for happiness.
That's the mistake I made, one of the mistakes, to have wanted a story for myself, whereas life alone is enough.
Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.
But I was not made for the great light that devours, a dim lamp was all I had been given, and patience without end, to shine it on the empty shadows.
In my head there are several windows, that I do know, but perhaps it is always the same one, open variously on the parading universe.
Two in distressmake sorrow less.
Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that… Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world. And we laugh, we laugh, with a will, in the beginning. But it's always the same thing. Yes, it's like the funny story we have heard too often, we still find it funny, but we don't laugh any more.
And what I have, what I am, is enough, was always enough for me, and as far as my dear little sweet little future is concerned I have no qualms, I have a good time coming.
Fail, fail again, fail better.
What is that unforgettable line?
That double-headed monster of damnation and salvation--Time.
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